


Breaking and Entering

by linguamortua



Series: Twink Brock Rumlow [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Burglary, Come Eating, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Twink Brock Rumlow, Unsafe Sex, hot power top jack rollins, terrible ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's sworn off jailbait these days, but when a twinky little burglar falls into his house what's he going to do - say no? Pure smut. This fic has no redeeming literary value whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking and Entering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brawlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by, and is dedicated to, the charming [brawlite](http://brawlite.tumblr.com/). Talking to you always brightens my day, friend!
> 
> It was speedily proofread by EC, who I initially forgot to credit - gah!
> 
> Find me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).

Jack’s down to his boxers and rinsing his mouth out with mouthwash when he hears the noise. It’s just a scuffle at first and he’s out in the sticks, so it could be a raccoon or a stray dog. Could be anything. He spits, wipes his mouth and patrols back down the dark hallway to his bedroom with a jaw-cracking yawn. Bitch of a week at work. Friday night might be party night for some, but Jack’s hankering for a good eight hours sleep then an easy weekend working on his Honda. There’s a fist-sized bruise on his hip and a knife wound across his ribs that’s shallow but itching. His own damn fault, the knife. He lunged in to help out a rookie. Should’ve let the kid take the slice – would’ve taught him some fucking attention to detail. Jack hears himself grumbling under his breath like a crazy old guy and shuts the hell up.

So that’s when he hears the noise again. It’s more a scratching this time, too controlled to be an animal. There’s a sturdy baseball bat behind his nightstand and he picks it up. It’s got good heft and Jack’s big and brawny. Don’t need to be firing off a gun in your own house. Life’s not a fucking Hollywood movie, is it? He swings the bat up onto his shoulder and slips down the stairs. The lights are all off, so there’s only a bit of moonlight to see by and nothing to silhouette him when he moves around. It’s the side door – that’s where the noise is coming from. The side door that he always locks, even though the lock’s a bit battered. 

Through the glass oval there’s a shadow of a head. Someone about middling sized, Jack’s guessing, with their head bent down to look at the lock. Jack waits beside the door and relaxes his arms down in front of him with the bat in a loose grip, as though he’s waiting for the pitch. _Let’s size ‘em up first_ , he tells himself. He falls into his combat breathing: four in, hold, four out, hold. He’s buzzed, humming with energy; he likes the moment before a fight. _Breaking into my fucking house, huh_? He wraps his left fingers more securely around the bat. He was always a good power hitter.

With an abrupt, rusted squeak the lock gives up, and the person on the other side all but falls into the house. He’s shorter than Jack, and slighter, and he whispers a curse to himself as he stumbles. Jack gives him a moment to catch himself. The man’s not stupid and he stays low and quiet as he makes sure nobody’s coming down the stairs for him. It’s the perfect time to strike. Still— Jack can’t resist –

‘Hey, asshole,’ he says in a soft voice, and brings up the bat. He’s controlled. He’s waiting to see how this plays out.

The guy turns on his heel and whips out a gun real fast and smooth. Jack’d bet he’s practised that move a few times. Jack stills right down; a sudden move now could be a bullet in his gut. At this range, he’s not dicking around with a nervous burglar. He sets the bat against the wall. The clouds roll away from the moon and a ray of light hits the intruder. Jack sees the gun properly and wants to laugh. It’s a tiny Glock 42, so compact that it looks almost silly in the man’s hands. Still, the man knows what he’s doing. He’s got a solid hold and he’s not waving the thing about like a damn fool. Jack breathes out softly, gives himself a long, calming count of three and then snatches the guy’s wrist in his right hand. A quick tug and a twist and Jack’s got the peashooter snug in his own big paw. He catches the man up by the back of his neck and pulls him into the moonlight coming through the window.

This time, he does laugh out loud – the guy’s barely out of his teens. Probably not even legal to drink. He’s a kid, even, smooth-faced and not quite filled out. He’s got the raw, unfinished look of a young man and his eyes are big and shocked in a startlingly handsome face. The kid lifts his chin defiantly and struggles in Jack’s grip. He’s breathing hard, all wound up and antsy like a raw recruit after his first scuffle. Cute.

‘Caught myself a little rabbit,’ grins Jack. He tucks the Glock into the back of his boxers and gathers up the kid’s arms. ‘Let’s have a look at you in the light.’ He flips on the hall light with one elbow. The kid is olive-skinned and perhaps six or eight inches shorter than Jack. He’s got a bit of muscle on him and a build that might be beefy one day if he works at it. His hair’s a glossy black, long on top and flopping out its style into his eyes. No hat, no jacket, no proper shoes: just jeans and a t-shirt and a pair of those stupid chucks with no grip or protection. He looks pouty, more annoyed at being caught than frightened at the easy way Jack disarmed him. He tries to lash out but it’s a sloppy punch and Jack blocks it, no problem, just catches it on his bicep and deflects.

‘Get off me,’ the kid says, all indignation in a New York accent that could strip paint clean off the walls. He makes a brave attempt to twist out of Jack’s grip on the back of his neck, but Jack’s got big hands and he’s strong, too. Jack chuckles and pins him back into the wall.

‘What is it then, kid?’ Jack asks. ‘Bet with a friend? Beer money? Want to feel like a badass?’

‘Fuck you!’

‘You’re in my goddamn house,’ Jack says, shaking him hard so his white teeth rattle around in his empty fucking head. The kid brings his arms up and grabs onto Jack’s biceps to steady himself. He doesn’t let go. He just stands there against the wall, looking up into Jack’s face all wilful and pissy. Jack wants to take a bite out of him – shit, he’s weak, what can he say? Like anyone would even know. The kid tries to wriggle again, and Jack blocks him into the corner with his bare hip.

‘Whatever,’ he spits. ‘Just let me go. I’m sorry, okay?’ He surges forward but Jack’s too big to get shoved out the way that easily. His hard body squirms pointlessly against Jack’s. His skin’s still cold from being outside. With a flicker of his eyes up and down, the kid seems to really take in the fact that Jack’s mostly nude. He stills. He casts his glance around; past Jack, to the half-open door, then to the floor, then back to Jack’s face. Yeah, Jack knows that look. He smirks at the kid.

‘You’re not sorry at all,’ he says. ‘You’re sorry you got caught.’ The kid shrugs. This close, he’s got to tip his head back to get a proper look at Jack.

‘So what?’ The kid’s cocky, now that the gun and the bat are out of the picture. _So what, make me_ , thinks Jack, ‘cause that’s how this game goes. _What’re you going to do, spank me for being bad_?

‘So, time to teach you a lesson, rabbit,’ he says, shoving the door closed then pushing the kid up the stairs ahead of him with a firm hand on his pert little ass. Well, shit, Jack may have sworn off jailbait now that he’s over thirty, but it don’t hardly count if the jailbait’s trying to get itself locked up. The kid doesn’t even try to object. He wiggles his way up the stairs, even.

‘What’s your name, kid?’ Jack asks at the bedroom door. He should probably know that kind of thing.

‘People call me Crossbones,’ says Jack’s intruder airily. It’s too pat, like he practises at home in the mirror. He’s got his arms folded across his chest and his weight on one leg so’s his hip cocks out to the side. He flips his hair out his eyes with a toss of his head, real cute, like he’s trade outside a bar sizing up the size of Jack’s wallet. Jack doesn’t even bother to laugh. He knows his amusement’s written all over his face.

‘That’s a dumbass nickname. What’s your real name?’

The kid’s got the decency to blush. ‘Brock.’

Jack grins. ‘That’s a dumbass name, too.’

He smacks Brock backwards into the wall, sick of the banter. He’s almost all the way hard, tenting his shorts, and he’s not inclined to play with his food before he devours it. Brock looks up at him with wide eyes and parted lips; it’s like a jolt of electricity to Jack’s dick, that submissive vibe the kid’s throwing off. He kisses hard, crushing Brock up against the wall with his hip and thigh. He feels the kid hard against his leg. He barely touches Brock before the kid’s mouth is falling open. Jack’s gotta know how he tastes, fuck. He runs his tongue over Brock’s lower lip and then licks inside. Brock’s head rolls back against the wall and he lets Jack do it, moving his own tongue in lazy, sensual circles. The lightest touch to Brock’s throat and he tips his head back further, lets Jack move him around. He tastes good, with a hint of spearmint – probably spat out his gum right before he jimmied the lock on Jack’s door.

Feels like a crime to stop, but Jack wants this boy in his bed. He pulls away, with a casual bite to Brock’s jaw on the way, and tows him to the bed by the front of his shirt.

‘Take it off,’ he says against the soft skin of Brock’s neck. The kid rushes to comply, then his hands are hovering at his belt. Jack waves a hand impatiently. ‘Yeah, them too.’ Brock’s all smooth muscle and soft, young skin; Jack’s gonna mark him, he decides, big bite marks on his tits, finger marks on his wrists. Maybe he’ll suck a hickey onto that tender neck. Brock slides his jeans off over his hips and Jack’s cock jerks in his boxers because the kid’s not wearing underwear. Jesus Christ, who the hell tries to stage a burglary dressed like that? He whistles and gives Brock an insultingly long look up and down.

‘Looks to me like you wanted someone to catch you,’ says Jack. He reels Brock in with a hand on the back of his neck and Brock comes to him all trusting and easy, like an idiot. Brock’s about to say something but Jack bends him over the edge of the bed and it cuts him off with a rush of breath. His round bubble ass is up in the air. Jack pauses to admire the view: the peach fuzz in the small of his back, the smooth skin where he’s obviously waxed away the dusting of hair leading down his crack. Jack nudges Brock’s legs apart a hip width and - oh, hell yeah, his balls are bare too, pink and inviting between his thighs. Jack opens him up with both hands for a good look. _Fuck_. Kid breaks into his house and just spreads his legs, all ready for it. Brock’s not even trying to turn round and look: his arms are loose over his head and his eyes are closed. He’s already blissed out. Jack crouches down and buries his face in Brock’s ass, goes to town with his tongue with no warning. Brock’s whole body contracts suddenly and then loosens into pleasure as Jack opens his mouth wide and sucks at Brock’s balls.

‘God,’ chokes out Brock like he’s already coming. Jack doubles down and rims the kid with long strokes. He’s not usually into this shit - a quick fuck in a bar will do him just fine, thanks - but there’s something about the sight of all this bare skin that’s getting Jack going real well. So smooth that he can almost slip his tongue right into Brock’s ass; so warm and heavy with the smell of Brock’s skin and his soap. In a minute Brock’s relaxed into it, rubbing himself on the bed. Jack tugs him back. When the kid comes, Jack wants to see it, wants to cause it. He eases his right thumb into Brock, watches it disappear in, thick and wet with spit. He pulls out, Brock warm and firm around him. The anticipation’s so good; just picturing pushing his cock into that tight little pucker. He hopes the kid’s a size queen, ‘cause it’s gonna take some work. There’s lube in the nightstand and he fishes for it with his left hand. He drips some right onto Brock’s ass. It makes the kid’s asshole twitch, sensitive. Jack blows gently and Brock twitches again with a tiny, breathy noise of surprise.

Jack’s desperate to fuck him like this, bent over and spread open and just waiting for him. He uses two fingers, curling them until Brock jumps and whimpers. Kid doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They’re flat on the bed, then he’s grabbing at the sheets, then he’s making a fist with one in mid-air. Each time Jack rubs at him inside, he twists and whimpers and gulps in air, making barely-audible sounds deep in his throat. In five minutes, Jack’s got three big fingers in Brock up to his knuckles. Brock’s noises are no longer quiet and breathy. He’s panting, moaning, making grunts and groans and gasps.

Either this kid is a pro at taking cock, or he’s too far gone to be tense. He’s draped slack over the bed, face in the covers and he’s pushing his ass up towards Jack with every press of Jack’s fingers. Bit more work and you could get a fist up him. Everything’s slick and open and smooth like a ripe peach. Jack wants to fuck him, sure, but he wants to fill him up, see how much he can take. He slides the first two fingertips of each hand into Brock’s asshole, working them in carefully. When he stretches them apart Brock moans into the bed sheets, his lower back arching. Jesus. The thought fleetingly occurs to Jack that he could fuck the kid with his baseball bat, probably. He pictures stretching the kid’s hole wide with his fingers and telling him to fuck himself with the handle. He imagines fisting the kid open, gaping and red. He imagines holding the bat and making Brock impale himself on the wide end. He’d be so loose after; Jack could get his fist back in there then jerk off into his own hand. Put it on the goddamn internet.

Grab the lube,’ orders Jack, suddenly inspired. Brock fumbles for it without looking, pops the cap up with his thumb. ‘Lube yourself up.’ Brock tries to get it on his fingers. ‘No,’ Jack says, ‘just pour it in.’ Brock reaches back and upends the bottle, letting the lube dribble into his ass where’s Jack’s making it gape open. ‘Ah, fuck,’ Jack says out loud - he can’t help himself, not when he’s watching this kid fill his ass up with lube without question. By the time the bottle drops to the floor, the stuff’s welling up over Jack’s fingers and dripping down over Brock’s balls. That’s it, that’s the fucking end; it’s all Jack can stand.

He pulls off his boxers and rolls on a rubber one-handed. He’d love to go in bare. Who wouldn’t want to bury his cock in Brock’s ass? He’s not completely ruled by his dick, though. A kid who’ll fuck him raw would probably pick up someone in a club and do the same. _Keep telling yourself that, Jack. It’s important_. With that pretty face there’s fair chance the kid sucks cock for money, anyway. A tug on Brock’s hip rolls him over. It’s a beautiful sight. The kid’s sweating and flushed up his chest, cock hard and leaking. He’s cut, which is a shame, but the dazed desire in his face makes up for it. Jack lifts Brock’s legs up, hooks his ankles over his shoulders. He lifts Brock up so he can line his dick up. As the kid bends, lube trickles out of him. Jack rubs his dick over Brock’s asshole, teasing them both.

‘Tell me how you like to be fucked,’ he demands. Brock’s answer is a wordless groan. He twists his fingers into the sheet and tries to arch himself up closer. ‘Tell me. Tell me how you want my dick.’ Brock gasps and twists in his grasp, cock twitching.

‘Please,’ he manages to say. Oh, Jack likes the begging and he’ll make the boy do more of it. Later.

‘Use your words. Tell me how you want me to fuck you.’ He rubs his dick along Brock’s ass crack again, enjoying the wet, slick noise.

‘I don’t know,’ pants Brock. ‘I don’t--’ He writhes, desperate and open mouthed, wanting it. ‘I’ve only had fingers before.’ Jack squeezes Brock’s ass cheeks around his dick and groans with delight. This is his life? This is like a fucking porno. _Cute twink gets ass nailed for the first time. Virgin boy takes daddy’s hot load._

‘God bless America,’ he drawls. ‘Fuck, kid. Ever had someone lick your ass before? Or you just suck off your boyfriends under the bleachers at school?’

‘I’m not in school,’ spits Brock, still trying to get Jack to stick it in him. ‘I’m _nineteen_.’ Nineteen! Jack’s died and gone to heaven.

‘Nineteen, huh?’ Jack says, watching a line of sweat run down Brock’s temple. ‘Nineteen and never been fucked. Guess that’s why you’re acting like the town slut. Big boy needs a big dick, huh? Tell me you need it, kid.’

‘I need it,’ says Brock in a rush.

‘Yeah, you do,’ says Jack. ‘Lucky for you my baseball bat’s downstairs or I’d fuck you with that.’ Brock’s eyes roll back in his head. ‘Oh, you like that? Choke on my cock while you take the wide end of a bat?’ Brock’s left hand scrabbles on the bed, and he scratches his right fingernails over his nipple. Hard enough to leave tracks on his skin. Jack rubs the head of his cock up over Brock’s balls. The sound Brock makes is raw and desperate. Jack could get this kid going all fucking night, but he can’t tease himself anymore.

He adjusts his grip on Brock’s ass, lifts him up to the right height and pushes in with one long, slow thrust. It lasts forever; it’s not enough. Even dripping with lube as he is, Brock’s real tight. Brock sucks in a wincing breath through his teeth, then another. Jack holds still and lets him adjust. When Brock’s hand drifts down to his dick, Jack puts a stop to it.

‘Don’t,’ he commands. ‘You’re gonna wait for it.’

‘Stings,’ Brock grits out. Jack laughs at him.

‘You’re man enough to break into a house, you should be man enough to take it up the ass,’ he says. ‘You’re lucky I’m using lube.’ Brock gives an involuntary shiver; even his ass tightens up. Jack groans. Fuck, Brock feels good, his ass clenching around the base of Jack’s cock and then the rest of him hot and snug. ‘Play with your tits.’ Brock obeys, fingering and twisting at his nipples. His mouth falls open and Jack starts to fuck him with long, controlled strokes. He pulls all the way out a couple times, watching the way Brock’s asshole clenches around nothing. His cock slides back in easier and lube wells up as he fucks into Brock. Jack takes it real slow, savouring the drag. Gotta get the kid into it. Gotta work him up to the deep dicking he clearly wants.

Brock’s hands are flat on the bed by his sides and he’s trying to push himself up for more. The little furrow between his eyebrows is gone. His face is all slack and flushed, his eyes closed. Every so often he licks at his lower lip with a pink, pointed tongue. Jack’s hands are slipping, slick with lube and sweat. He dumps Brock down on the bed. Brock scrabbles at Jack’s thighs.

‘More, he slurs, his hips rolling like he’s still getting fucked. Jack gets one knee up on the bed, leans over Brock and pushes his legs up, damn near folding him in half.

‘Hold your legs,’ he says. Brock wraps his hands around the backs of his thighs, spreads ‘em wide. There are red marks on his ass where Jack’s held him. His skin glistens with the lube. Jack bends down and kisses him hard. When he lines his cock up again and presses home, Brock makes a yelping noise; Jack’s so deep in him like this, filling him up. Jack’s going hard now, no need to hold back when Brock’s loosened right up. Every time Jack thrusts Brock gasps out a sound, high and needy. ‘Christ, you’re sweet,’ Jack tells him, ‘listen to you.’ Brock moans, throwing his head back. His throat’s a long, tanned line. Jack bites it, hard.

‘Ow,’ sobs Brock, but he’s still moaning, desperate and insistent. Jack bites him again, lower down this time near his collarbone. Brock squeals, honest to fucking God, squeals like a chick in a porno; his cock’s leaking onto his belly and he’s red, so red, Jack can’t think about it too much or he’ll blow his load right now. Gotta get Brock off first – can’t come first like a teenager, especially not when he’s _fucking_ one.

‘Hey, kid,’ pants Jack, watching the way Brock’s ass is stretching around his thick cock, ‘honest to God, you never got fucked before?’

‘Honest,’ Brock manages to say, ‘just— _ah_ , oh God—just a few blow jobs.’ He’s barely holding it together, so it’s now or never. Ah, shit, Jack’s going to do something fucking stupid, and he doesn’t even care. He stills for a moment.

‘I’m gonna come in your ass,’ he says, pulling out.

‘Do anything, I don’t care,’ Brock says, barely intelligible. ‘Just fuck me, just—’ He waves a hand. Good enough. Jack snaps off the rubber and drops it on the floor.

‘Hands and knees,’ he tells Brock, who immediately rolls over and presents his ass. It’s a good look for him. Jack’s finger marks are still livid on his skin. His arms are shaking; he’s so close to coming untouched, so close. This is it, Jack’s gonna do it – he spreads open Brock’s ass cheeks. The kid’s red and sore and there’s so much lube running down his thighs that it looks like he’s taken half a fucking football team. Jack’d pay good money to watch that. Or to take him to the biker bar down the road and see the regulars go to town on him, one after another.

Jack groans the minute his cock head touches skin, so wet and so warm and waxed smooth like a stripper. He sinks in deep but Brock’s sloppy and loose and so he slaps Brock’s ass hard, makes him flinch. ‘Tighten up,’ he says. ‘C’mon. Gimme that little virgin ass. Tighten up on me.’ Brock tries, and he tries, and he’s moaning all slutty and high, and Jack grabs his hair and pulls on it; Brock squeals again like before, and again when Jack squeezes his throat, and again when Jack slaps him, and again when Jack bends his head to bite the nape of Brock’s neck.

Jack reaches down and pumps Brock’s dick once, twice. Brock falls apart, cries out and comes with a great sob, his arms finally giving up so he’s flat on his face with his ass in the air. Watching him, feeling him spasm and buck, drags an embarrassing noise out of Jack. He moans real loud and heavy, can’t help it, and he gets his knee up on the bed again for leverage so his last few thrusts slide Brock across the bed. He rides out his orgasm, thrusts through its long pulses into the fucked-out mess of Brock’s ass. The noise is obscene. When he finally pulls out, he kind of wants to get a picture. Brock’s hole’s gaping and used and Jack leans over and spits in it, just because he can.

‘Push it out,’ he says suddenly. Brock does. He gives a whimper, and his swollen asshole twitches, and Jack’s spunk’s coming out in a long, white trickle over his balls and down his thigh. Between that and the lube, it’s crazy how much there is. Jack runs his fingers through the mess, scoops up a palmful of it. ‘Open up,’ he says, and Brock turns his sweaty face to Jack, sticks out his tongue and licks up the whole damn lot.

Jack lets him lie there face down on the bed for a couple minutes. He cleans himself up in the bathroom, cock and hands and face, then throws on fresh shorts. When he gets back to the bedroom, Brock’s bent over and picking up his jeans. What a fucking sight he is, with a pink spanked ass and come trickling down his thighs. The kid gets himself dressed, just puts his clothes on right over the mess and then hunts for his socks. He can barely stay on his feet. He shuffles down the stairs with a shoelace coming untucked.

Downstairs, Jack appraises Brock, standing by the door in his jeans and his thin grey shirt. The draught from the door is giving him goose pimples. With his bee-stung lips and his freshly-fucked flush and bite marks livid on his throat, he looks even younger. It’s bringing out something real protective in Jack, almost as if he’s a decent human and not a fucking jerk _. God damn_. What kind of man would he be if he let a sweet piece like this catch a chill, though?  Ah, shit.

‘You’re gonna freeze out there,’ Jack says finally. He reaches for the coat stand and unhooks an old jacket, a navy blue thing that he takes on the odd camping trip. The kid takes it slowly, puts it on. It hangs off his shoulders and he pulls it close, makes himself a cocoon. He pops the collar up like the douchebag he obviously is. Jack kind of wants to strip it off him again, seeing him all small and wrapped up and hesitant. _Nah, kid, I changed my mind, you better take all that off and stay here_. Jack could cuff him to the bed, spend a bit of time pressing his buttons. Work him over until he cried. Keep him around for the weekend, maybe.

He’s pretty sure he could do whatever he wants and Brock’d just go along with it. Adrenaline junkie? Dumb as shit? Kinky, perhaps? Possibly all three. But Jack also thinks about the smooth, easy draw of that little gun; thinks about Brock’s natural caution and his quick, clever hands. His grit and his fight. He’s gonna do another dumb thing tonight. He finds his plain black work jacket on the coat stand and reaches into the inside pocket. There are a couple of cards stashed in there. One’s caught in the lining and he tugs it out carefully.

‘You got a job, kid?’

Brock shrugs.

‘I do whatever, I guess,’ he says. Right, it figures – most likely he does a bit of burglary, picks up a shift or two at the 7-11. Jack knows the type.

‘You want one?’

‘You gonna pay to fuck me?’ Brock sneers. His distaste is not at all fucking convincing when he reeks of sweat and spunk and he’s covered in marks Jack put there.

‘Nah,’ Jack tells him. ‘Something way better, if you’ve got the balls.’ He hands over the card and opens the side door. ‘Get home safe,’ he leers at Brock’s departing back. ‘There’s all kinds of terrible people out there.’

*

Brock wanders down the side path and out towards the road. It’s a miracle he can walk. He wants to limp, a little. He wants to call a friend, _you’ll never fucking believe it, man_. He wants it to be a filthy secret. He wants a hot shower, but he’s also pretty sure that the smell of the guy’s semen on his skin is going to keep him in jerk-off fantasies until he’s fifty. He wants to turn around and knock on the door and go a second round. His nerves are thrilling and the bite mark on his nape is throbbing in time with his heart. The guy could be anyone. Brock imagines throwing the card away and never finding out his name; imagines going back and begging for the baseball bat.

The guy looked like a certified badass, with scars and all that motorcycle gear in the hall. The way he disarmed Brock, and his hard, calloused hands. Brock wonders what the hell he does for a living. What he thinks Brock could do too. Curiosity wins. In the yellow glow of a streetlight, he flips the card over in his hand and reads it. It says:

_J. J. Rollins, tactical specialist, S.H.I.E.L.D._


End file.
